I'll Be Waiting
by Anera527
Summary: "When I see you coming I will rise up with a shout and come running through the waters reaching for your hand."


"_**I'll Be Waiting"**_

A/N: "The Far Side Banks of Jordan" is an old Gospel hymn that Johnny Cash first recorded (now without a copyright, as far as I saw it). This song was sung a cappella by my uncle's brother's family at his funeral a few days ago, and it struck me deeply. I started to write this story as a way to deal with the rather raw grief—and ultimate peace—after I listened to this group of southern Baptists sing through their tears in homage to a man who left us all far too soon.

This one's for you, Uncle Kirk. I hope I make you proud.

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_~I believe my steps are growing wearier each day  
Still I've got a journey on my mind  
Lures of this old world have ceased to make me want to stay  
and my one regret is leaving you behind._

You weren't supposed to have died. It was illogical that you died when you did, Frodo. Aragorn himself said that after those first twenty-four critical hours, you would pull through—that, yes, you would be bedbound for several months—but that ultimately you would recover. The clots of blood in your lungs had stopped your heart five times that first night even after you had been taken to help, and it had taken all of Aragorn's skills to stabilize you, nearly losing you again as your heart stopped three more times. That first night of breathless wait was when we were most terrified, similar to that terrible week in Rivendell following your battle with the Witch King's influence, sitting vigil by your bedside, fearful that your heart would give out a ninth time. But it did not, and so the houses of healing was chaotic and overwhelming as the healers tried to make sense of what was happening.

Who would have guessed it would have been from the troll's spear in Moria?

You had been given a sizeable bruise from that, I remember, a deep purple mark on your chest that took weeks to completely disappear. And then as time progressed you complained of a deep, wracking cough that stole your breath away and made your lungs ache, and you were given broths and teas and draughts to help you over your sickness. None of us could have guessed that it had not been merely a cold you were suffering from, but the sinister pooling of blood settling deep in your lungs.

So Aragorn had set to dissolve those dangerous clots, allowing you to slip into a deep sleep you nonetheless tried to bring yourself out of. We stayed over the first night, watching you carefully, frightened that you could still slip away from us.

_If it proves to be His will that I am first to go-  
And somehow I've a feeling it will be-  
When it comes your time to travel likewise don't you feel lost  
For I will be the first one that you'll see._

It was difficult watching you, though, Frodo. For two days you laid there—long days, and even longer nights, stilling your restless slumber and trying not to cry at the sight of blood that dripped from your nose and mouth every time you tried to speak or even made the mistake of breathing too deeply. Side effects of your lungs, Aragorn told us, bidding us to keep you completely still so as to not dislodge any more of the clots waiting there. He sat as often by your bedside, Frodo, as any of the rest of us did even with his duties as the new king! The Queen would often accompany him. Lord Elrond, when hearing of your condition, carefully checked you over and finally said that since you had successfully passed twenty-four hours without terrible incident then it was likely you would recover with little difficulty. That was the second day.

But then came the following morning. And we found you with a slowly-beating heart and no other activity—as if your soul had already mostly departed and was simply waiting for us, your loved ones, to let you go.

Aragorn tried to find your soul again as he had after you and Sam were rescued from the destruction of Mount Doom, but it was for naught, After several hours he fell back exhausted and said it was too late. You were already too far gone to find. I see now looking back that you did not let go of life for any reason except that you were called home, wherever that home may turn out to be in death; that perhaps you had fulfilled the purpose you had been placed on this earth for, and leaving was your reward. At the time, however, through my shock all I could think of was my confusion and anger: confusion as to how one day you could be here and then simply _gone_ the next. And we did let you go, Frodo, even though it was the most painful thing I know I ever did. Each of the Company said their goodbyes and said their blessings and sat with you as you took your last breath and quietly slipped away from us. But after that, I was angry at you, Frodo, furious even. You weren't supposed to leave us then, you were supposed to get better! You left me and Pippin and Sam and the rest of the Company—it was the only time I ever saw Gandalf or Aragorn truly break down and weep, and it is a sight I never want to see again. You were supposed to have lived to come home with us to the shire, the land you bled and suffered for. The only way you reached it was by a funeral procession, because Pippin and I could not bear the thought of you buried in the cold stone of Gondor and Sam staunchly refused to allow it.

_Through this life we've labored hard to earn our meager fare  
It's brought us trembling hands and failing eyes  
I'll just rest here on this shore and turn my eyes away  
until you come then we'll see paradise._

You became something of a legend among the hobbits, Frodo. They had all thought you had taken me and Pippin and Sam on some fool crusade and gotten us all killed. But to hear from the king's own mouth what you had done, and to see the evidence of the Quest, your name reached a strange mix of maniac and martyr. You would have laughed at some of the tales we heard, and been truly angered by others; but when we buried you beside your parents in Buckland, there were dozens of hobbits who had been close to you and wanted to pay their last respects, and it at least was a comfort to know you had touched the hearts of so many. It made me cry anew to know that never again would you laugh or smile or cry or even reach that rare level of anger me and Pippin sometimes drove you to. It's been difficult, even now.

For years now, I've written to you in this journal, Frodo. Why? I don't know. Perhaps it is simply because I cannot bear to let you go completely. Or maybe it is because I hope that, somewhere, you can read what I write here and know that you are not forgotten, that you are loved, and that you always will be. This is the first time in sixty years I've written about that terrible morning in Gonfor knowing you had left us behind. But now I've come to realize that everything works in the plan of the Maker and that your soul is at peace. I will see you again, Frodo, and I know now I must let you go. This is not a goodbye, merely a see-you-later. With all my love,

You cousin,

Merry

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With a heavy sigh, Merry softly closed the leather-bound book he held and placed his glasses on the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion.

He was old now. In his nineties, almost one hundred, and only he and Pippin remained of the Travelers. Sam had spent the entirety of his life nurturing the Shire. He had married Rose Cotton and they had remained married until her death only a few years ago, and Sam did not remain long after her.

"_I'm tired, see,"_ Sam had told Merry only a week before he, too, passed. _"This world ain't for me no more." _There had been a quiet, respectful funeral for Sam.

Was this how Frodo had felt that last night? Merry had wondered to himself. Had he somehow sensed that his time was up while lying in slumber, and gripped Death by the hand to draw himself up? Or had it been someone besides Death? Even more than the terrible sadness, Merry would never forget the strange, peaceful smile his cousin's face had relaxed into. Such a small, peculiar smile.

He sighed again. Those were questions he would never receive answers for.

His joints ached. That was the curse of growing old, Merry thought wryly. Everything hurt. Standing, he reached for his pipe and lit it, allowing its soothing scent to waft to his nose. He sat himself down by the lit hearth. He was tired. It was perhaps too late in the day to take a nap, but it wouldn't hurt. He was tired, and it would only be a little nap…

_While he slept, he dreamed. And as he dreamed, he drifted along an odd winding path he had never seen before, both ancient and young at the same time, as if it had just been created and been laid there thousands of years before. And after walking several hours, or maybe no time at all, the trees thinned and soon altogether disappeared. He fancied he could hear the faint rumble of a river passing through the land and looked for its source. Looking, he spied a sparkling, brilliant ribbon of water that snaked its way through a dry and dusty land. He was curious to see it and sped his pace and found himself at its edge soon enough. He thought he heard faint singing along the way, and there were footprints of all shapes and sizes crisscrossing each other across the land, all aiming for the river he was headed for. _

_It was a broad river, swiftly moving, and the land beyond it was green and lush with life. He could see no Sun in its sky but nonetheless it was lit with a bright Light that he almost couldn't bear to look at directly. The sand beneath Merry's feet was soft and fine, and the air itself was full and clean and healing._

_Quickly he looked to the water's edge and was tempted to step into it but was deterred by its swift current. He gazed up its opposite bank and then spotted, finally, the first person he had seen since entering this strange dream. Seated there beside the waters, singing something about a "poor wayfaring stranger", there was someone fair-skinned and dark-haired, and as small as a child—_

And I'll be waiting on the far side banks of Jordan  
I'll be waiting drawing pictures in the sand  
And when I see you coming I will rise up with a shout  
And come running through the shallow waters reaching for your hand

_And suddenly Merry knew who it was and his heart leapt into his throat. His voice ripped from his throat in a hoarse, disbelieving shout:_

"_Frodo!"_

_It was indeed his older cousin, and as soon as he heard his name called he stopped his song and looked over. It was the same face Merry remembered, the long thin nose, the wide eyes, but there was little sign of age on him and his hair was untouched with grey. Odd, this dream, Merry thought to himself, showing him his cousin from before the Quest._

"_Merry!" Frodo cried joyfully, leaping to his feet. "You took your own sweet time coming here, you old ass!"_

"_Coming where?" Merry looked up and down the bank again. "What is this river, anyway? The Brandywine?"_

_Something saddened in Frodo's smile, but it did not disappear. "I'm afraid not, my lad. It is not a river we were ever familiar with, and indeed does not exist even in Arda. This is the river Jordan."_

_A river he had never heard of before, showing up in his dreams? He shook his head, but he could make no sense of things. This was different from any other dream he'd ever had. He moved forward anyway to cross the waters but stopped again. "Who's that?"_

_A stranger had shown up near Frodo, far enough away not to be recognized but still there, a Man dressed in robes of white, a light surrounding him that nearly blinded Merry again, and he realized that that was where the light in the land was coming from._

_Frodo looked back at the stranger, then turned back to Merry with a wide smile. "The Maker, Merry," he replied softly. "He has called you home. Come now—He wants to speak with you." He stepped into the waters himself and Merry saw that the river really wasn't as strong as it looked. _

"_I suppose I could stay for awhile…" Merry said hesitantly. "At least until I wake up from this dream."_

"_Merry," Frodo answered quietly, "I am afraid that once you cross over, there can be no crossing back." But still he held his hand extended out for Merry to decide._

_Even if some part of Merry did not quite understand what was going on, and he really didn't understand what Frodo meant, he thought maybe deep down he really did, because he felt something stirring deep in his gut. His cousin looked so joyous and free, excited that Merry was there, and there was a niggling in the back of his mind as he tried to remember why this scenario was so strange. But he could not, and Frodo's extended hand was an invitation._

_And without hesitation, he grasped it._

…And when I see you coming I will rise up with the shout  
And come running through the shallow waters reaching for your hand~

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Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I do not own the lyrics of the song. I do not even own the scenarios of sickness and eventual death. Everything that happened to Frodo in this story is what happened in real life with my uncle. I can only look forward to the day when I'll be able to see him again on "that far side bank of Jordan."


End file.
